Page 59 of Fragile Wicked Things
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The following evening,Rochester still had not returned to Thornfield, and I waited one more night before asking Thomas for help. I traveled down the drive to the home that once belonged to Auntie, where Thomas now lived. As I approached, I found him waiting for me, leaning against the doorjamb, a grin on his face.
"I've got the kettle on," he said, and I followed him in.
The home was small and bare, with a green sofa placed in the center of the living room, its middle sunken, and in front of it was a striped woven rug on the white-painted wood floor. Next to the kitchen was a table and two chairs. I had never been in the home when Auntie was alive, and it felt strange being there with her gone. Even stranger was the general awkwardness that still existed between Thomas and myself. For his part, the uneasiness began with Auntie's death. As for me, I built a wall up when I discovered the secret of the creature Thornfield housed. There was no one else to speak to about it, leaving me no choice but to be upfront with Thomas, tell him about Rochester’s secret while asking him for help to bring him home.
"Lemon or milk?" Thomas said, placing two teacups on the table we sat at. Then he snapped his fingers. "Forgot I'm out of lemons."
"Milk is fine," I said, and he poured some into my cup. I stirred the milk with a spoon, and although it blended several seconds later, I kept stirring. Thomas did the same. "Help me bring Rochester home," I blurted out.
He took the spoon out of his cup and laid it down, then raised his hands to cover his face, leaning his elbows on the table. "I'm not so sure that's a good idea," he said. Then, after removing his hands from his face, he asked, "Why are you doing this?"
Taking a deep breath, I relayed the events of the night Catherine died, hesitating before revealing what I saw in the attic. And although I had thought he would believe me to be crazy, I had not anticipated what followed.
"I'm sorry you saw that. You were never supposed to see it," he said.
Tears flooded my eyes at the betrayal, and he looked away. "You knew what he was all this time?"
"Not at first, but when my grandmother died, he offered me a job. The money was too good...I learned soon enough what the job entailed," Thomas said, rubbing at his eyes.
"You were his handler. Did you get the women for him?"
"They weren't harmed and were paid well. Three women each month, a little from each, to survive. That's not a lot to ask for."
"You call what he did to them not harmful? I'm going to be sick." Thomas grabbed a pail from under the kitchen sink and put it on the floor in front of me, but I overcame the queasiness. "Am I insane? Because all of this is madness. I wish I had never come to Thornfield."
"We won't stay here. We can go up north, to New York and start over."
"We? I don't know what you've become."
"Please, forgive me. You're right. This place is mad, and we must get as far away as possible. You'll see. Things will be better once we're free from this place. Free from Rochester."
It was simple to say yes, to leave Thornfield behind, but could that be the answer? I was no longer certain where things stood with Thomas, and now I knew what he did for money. It marked him in my eyes. Still, I couldn’t shake the image of Rochester locking himself away in the tomb with his love. Catherine brought me here to save him, just as she had done. What is it she asked of me? To stay and consider the recklessness that follows Rochester’s despair.
But who will save me?
"OK," I said at last. "We'll leave once Rochester returns."
There it was again, another expression on his face, a shift of the eyes, a turning away of his face. "He's not coming back, Jane."
"You can't be sure of that."
"Mr. Rochester knew he wasn't returning. He wanted me to take care of a few things and left you with a great sum of money, so much that you never have to worry about bills. He said the account once belonged to Catherine, but she returned it to him, and now it's yours. He wanted to free you, to give you a life you never thought possible. He said you're brilliant and could go to university. Mr. Rochester wanted all these things for you."
"He did that?"
"Jane, he made it clear that you were free to pursue anything. He thought only of your happiness."
Happiness—that was a strange word to me—so odd that I didn't know what I could possibly do with it. I was free, yet I couldn't help but set about freeing Rochester from his prison.
It took convincing, but soon, Thomas agreed with me. On the thirtieth night of Rochester's absence, we drove to the cemetery to bring him home. Thomas snuck a bag of blood into his belongings, and I pretended not to notice. Once Rochester was safe at Thornfield, Thomas and I planned to leave for New York City.
Thomas slid the edge of a crowbar into the crack of the mausoleum door and, after much exertion, propped it open. Standing in utter darkness, I called out to Rochester, but there was no answer, so I pulled the flashlight from my bag, searching for any sign of him. Thomas walked to the small tombstone and read it.
"They had a daughter?"
"Yes," I said, then took the light off the small tomb and shone it elsewhere, pointing the light into every dark corner. Still, I could not find him. "Mr. Rochester?"
